


Christmas Letter

by purpleygirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleygirl/pseuds/purpleygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus's neighbour's owl gives someone a little Christmas gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Letter

It wasn’t that he’d had too much to drink. He’d had three eggnogs while enjoying the Weasleys’ company, that was all. He was just pleasantly open. He felt that pleasant openness that allowed oneself to listen to one’s thoughts without judgement or fear.

No, what it was was what Molly had said.

He couldn’t remember how the conversation had turned so thoughtful, but as she handed out mince pies she’d remarked, “How lonely it must be to know you’re not loved, today of all days.”

And he couldn’t eat the pie in his hand for thinking, though he couldn’t catch what it was until he had got home and been greeted by the owl he’d forgotten he’d agreed to look after while the neighbours were away visiting family. And then he gravitated towards pen and parchment. Because it was Christmas, and everyone deserved a present at Christmas, and he was going to do it today.

It was the drink that made him feel generous, that made him feel that this wasn’t the most foolhardy thing in the world. It was the drink that made him feel that loneliness with him, so that it ached, today.

He wrote it out. “You are loved.” And he explained himself around it. He explained he knew he hated him because he was a werewolf. He apologised for it, though he wasn’t sure whether he was apologising for the hate or the lycanthropy that inspired it. He almost began dismissing everything, then signed off, quickly. Later, when he’d got tired of staring at the words, he folded the letter up neatly, instead of scrunching it up and throwing it in the bin. Then he fell asleep at the table.

But he had forgotten that today even owls felt the expectation of extra treats. Because if you didn’t get what you wanted today, when would you ever?

So he woke to the owl pecking carefully at his hand, and fed her. It wasn’t until later – much too late – that he remembered the letter, and that it should be on the table.

Her work done for the day and tummy full, the owl slept contentedly on her perch by the open window. He gently closed it.

It was too late, and too early an hour to get it back, if he could, if it hadn’t been read yet. Oh, Merlin, please not let it have been read yet! And now his neck ached from sleeping at the table, and his head ached from the absence of the letter he should never have written out.

His mouth was dry. He waited until the clock struck the hour, then he couldn’t wait any longer, and he went out without his cloak and Apparated to his front door.

It didn’t take more than one set of knocks. What did that mean? But he looked blankly back. What did that mean? And he stood back after a reluctant moment to let him in after he’d wished his merry Christmas and happy new year with a fakely confident smile that he desperately held onto.

He counted the tables, chairs, as his eyes swept for letters. None. But then the mantelpiece sent his heart into freefall. The fireplace grinned back. It was still folded. What did that mean?

“Ah, I see you got it,” he got out. But then nothing else. Until a feverish, “Have you… You see, my owl -- that is, my neighbour’s owl -- was a bit overzealous, and… Have you read it?”

It was clear from his face that he hadn’t. He wasn’t going wild with words of hate and disgust. He wasn’t throwing him out into the snow. But neither was he going wild with words of requited love. Nor was he throwing himself into his arms with tears streaming down his face and a tenderness in his embrace.

He was just looking. What did that mean?

So he couldn’t wait any longer. He took back his letter (relief at touching it). And now leave. Leave now. He looked for the escape. “Just a mistake. You know how these things happen.” There was the door, right upon him, at his hand. Open. And then.

“Funny. Did you imagine Black was still alive, because I find it difficult to understand why you would play such a trivial joke with no one to share it with. Or have you acquired a new friend for these things?”

“What? No, as I said, just a mistake it got sent out. Sorry to have bothered you with it.”

“A mistake?”

“Yes. Bye – and happy new year.”

“Yes, yes. I wonder what was the mistake. The writing of it, or the posting?”

The “What?” came slower as his back grew colder against the chilly Boxing Day morning.

“I said –“ But Severus rarely repeated himself. He was fond of warning against the rare event. And it must have been because it had almost happened that he went pale. Then red. His folded arms fell undone.

“Yes… Happy new year.” Was he waiting there still to hear it back? It was freezing out, and he’d forgotten his cloak. The only thing he could feel was the letter in his hand. His letter. That he had read.

“You’re letting a lot of cold air in.”

“Yes.” Was that him speaking? He couldn’t feel his mouth.

“I suppose you’d better come back in.”

Were those his legs moving? Was that Severus Snape making him a brandy? He didn’t know anything until the warmth of the chair he’d fallen into embraced him, and he released his grip on the letter because his fingers were hurting and something might fall on it from his face.

“Shut up and drink.”

“You must think me an idiot.”

“But that’s nothing new.”

His laughter was nervous. He felt like a frightened child. “I’m sorry I bothered you with it. I just wanted you to know. That you’re… For Christmas.”

The brandy stared back, keeping the silence, stretching it beyond bearability.

“So. It only applies at Christmas?”

His accuser’s eyes looked back as he shook his head, admitting his guilt, finally relieved of it.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Not really. I suppose this is going to make an interesting Boxing Day. Are you going to give me my present back? It was the only one I got.”

He looked down at the crumpled letter. It proved difficult to smooth out to the perfection it should be. “But it wasn’t this I gave you, was it?”

“I thought you said it didn’t just apply at Christmas?”

“It doesn’t.”

“So I suppose you’d better tell me how long. Unless you plan on sending me another letter.”

“I hadn’t planned on sending this one.”

“Indeed. Plainly it was the drink.”

“No. No, it wasn’t that. It was what Molly said.”

“What did she say?”

“She said… She said…”

“Well?”

“I can’t remember. What people say at Christmas. It doesn’t really matter what she said.”

“It seemed to matter a lot.”

“She just reminded me I hadn’t… given out everything I could. Should. Because if you don’t when it’s Christmas, when do you?”

“So.” The fire crackled. “So there was no possibility of it last Christmas?”

It was a relief to smile. It spread over him like a warm blanket and permitted him to see beyond today. “I’m afraid I’d drunk too much then.”


End file.
